


The One With the Soulmate

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, Markiplier AU, markiplier imagines, markiplier preferences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the day he was old enough to understand it, Mark knew that he would be issued his Predetermined Soulmate on his twenty-sixth birthday. He had watched every other person in his life receive their PSMs, and while he knew that it was simply just the way his cards were dealt, he was beginning to feel restless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

From the day he was old enough to understand it, Mark knew that he would be issued his Predetermined Soulmate on his twenty-sixth birthday. He had watched every other person in his life receive their PSMs, and while he knew that it was simply just the way his cards were dealt, he was beginning to feel restless.

Being the youngest of his core group of friends, along being the baby of the family, he experienced the assignments of PSMs to his closest companions. He got the call from his best friend since kindergarten on his twenty-sixth birthday, explaining how nervous he was before stepping into that stark white room. Mark soaked in all of the information his friend gave him, wanting to know every detail so that he could be prepared for the day he met his own soulmate.

Thomas was more private about his experience and didn’t offer up his younger brother any information that wasn’t readily available to the public to research on their own accord. Only two years his senior, Mark expected his older brother to provide him with more information than anyone. However, when Thomas’s twenty-sixth came around, he was closed off and oddly protective of his experience.

After watching everyone he was closest to be paired up with their PSMs, Mark couldn’t help but be slightly jealous of all of them. Once you were matched with your PSM, there were no more questions about life – about whether or not you would be happy. Carefully selected by the Predetermined Soulmate Headquarters of America, you and your soulmate were quite literally perfect for each other. Born on the same day, in the same year, the two of you would meet for the first time on both of your twenty-sixth birthdays and then spend the rest of your lives together.

From what Mark gathered, the day he would meet his PSM was the day his life really began. Colors were more vibrant, food tasted better, music sounded better – the world became a better place once you matched with your Predetermined Soulmate. He knew that he shouldn’t rush it; he knew that he _couldn’t_ rush it. But, with each day nearing June 28, he became more and more impatient.

He already loved her so much, his PSM. Something unfathomable for someone who had never told anyone besides his family that he loved them. Sure, he’d had girlfriends in the past. Everyone experimented with others who weren’t their PSMs. It was expected of you, to find out how to do the basic motions of a relationship, before meeting your soulmate. But, he’d never loved them. He never felt all of the air get sucked out of the room when he saw them, he never yearned for them in the middle of the night.

He could feel his soulmate with him in everything that he did. As the date of their twenty-six birthday neared, the feelings intensified. He could, for as long as he remembered, feel the strongest emotions she felt. He thinks, one summer afternoon when they were seven, that she had broken her arm. He wasn’t sure how, but he could still recall how his forearm throbbed for a week after a flash of searing pain ran up his left wrist. He often wondered if she could feel the punch that landed smack-dab in the middle of his face at the hand of Andrew McPhearson after getting him out in four-square during recess in the sixth grade. It had given him a bloody nose that wouldn’t quit, the only thing comforting him was the thought of her experiencing the same dull thud of a pulse in between his eyes.

Now, as their birthday neared, he could feel the tiniest changes in mood. He knew that she would take a short nap after she got home from work at four every day, always struggling to keep her eyes open as she drove home. He knew that she enjoyed a routine of yoga every morning and he appreciated the warming sensation in his muscles as she stretched. He knew that she had intense cravings for Reese’s peanut butter cups, and would often eat a couple for her so she wouldn’t feel guilty about sneaking a couple before lunch.

Whenever he felt sad on a Saturday night, he knew she was watching another independent film about a family with fucked up dynamics, and whenever he felt the strong urge to cry two hours later, he chalked it up to the ending of whatever she was watching. He knew that she preferred almond milk to soy, being barefoot to wearing shoes, and getting up early to sleeping in – something he found rather difficult to get used to.

When Mark fell asleep at night, he dreamed of what his PSM would look like. He honestly didn’t care, as he was already so deeply in love with her, he couldn’t imagine her looks _detracting_ from that. He longed to reach out and touch her, to have her turn her body so that she was curled into his chest, to smell her hair and feel how soft her t-shirt was. He hoped that she could feel how much he yearned for her presence in his life, how painful it was to be without her sometimes. When the hurt in his heart was too strong to bear, too heavy on his soul, he would lay awake and know that wherever she was, she was feeling the same thing.

It wasn’t the major things that made him fall in love with her. He knew she had a kind heart. He knew she got along with her mother; knew that she called her grandma every Sunday. He knew that she worked for a job that stressed her out, but fulfilled whatever space she needed to fill within her to feel accomplished. He knew that she still held an affinity for her childhood dog, Rosco, and kept his picture on her dresser. He wasn’t sure how, exactly, he knew these things, but he accepted any information their subconscious allowed to seep through.

No, it wasn’t the major things. It was the fact that she was too embarrassed to admit that she hated mushrooms, so she claimed that she was allergic in order to not offend anyone. It was how she seriously contemplated the pros and cons of a product before she bought it. It was how she always allowed cars to pull out in front of her with a smile. It was how she always tipped at least 20% on a bill without second guessing it. It was the small things that made Mark fall in love with his Predetermined Soulmate. It was the small things that kept him up at night.

—

You were never one for romance. You hated anything having to do with roses, teddy bears, or heart-shaped boxes filled with assorted chocolates. You didn’t need long, drawn-out letters from anyone to prove how much they loved you. You didn’t sigh wistfully at the thought of your Predetermined Soulmate whenever he bumped his knee or saw a particularly large spider. No, you weren’t one for that lovey-dovey stuff, but that wasn’t to say you weren’t eager for your twenty-sixth birthday to come around.

You started noticing a change in how you felt once your best friend had been assigned her PSM a year earlier. You, being the absolute youngest out of any of your friends, had watched everyone trot happily off into the sunset with their soulmates, while you stood back and watched it all happen from the comforts of your couch.

You never really bought into the idea of PSMs. The system was all anyone ever knew, but you couldn’t help but question it. Why couldn’t you find your own soulmate? Why did you have to wait until your twenty-sixth birthday to connect? What was it about this chosen soulmate that made them your actual soulmate? You’d never seen what could happen if it all went wrong – you’d heard stories of people dying before their twenty-sixth birthday and then their soulmate shows up to the big day, only to find out that they’ll be alone for eternity – but you’d never actually heard of soulmates not completely loving one another.

And, quite frankly, that scared the everloving shit out of you.

With your luck, you’d be the first PSM in the history of the world to hate your soulmate. You got along with most everyone, but that didn’t mean you wanted to spend the rest of your life with Joe Schmoe in accounting. You weren’t sure you could be paired up with someone who was literally perfect for you so easily.

But, then, you saw how everyone around you was so goddamn happy, and your doubts started to slowly but surely fade away. They say that once you meet your PSM, your soul is at peace. Which, it makes sense, the whole peace part. You don’t have to worry about searching for the right person – it was all set out for you.

You’d watched older movies from before the time of Predetermined Soulmates. Movies where the main character would have to choose between two men she loved equally, and someone would always end up getting their heart broken. You hated those movies, not because they were supposed to be romantic, but because you lived in a world where that didn’t have to happen anymore. The day you were born, so was your PSM, and that was that.

It made dating easy. You’d had a few flings in college – the whole song and dance – and neither of you had to worry about getting your heart broken. Once the relationship was over, you had your twenty-sixth birthday to look forward to, so the loss wasn’t that substantial. Sure, you missed a few of your boyfriends deeply at the time the breakups occurred, but you got over it quickly due to the fact that someone who was your match was still walking around out there. That is, if he hadn’t died yet.

You felt your PSM in your bones, which frightened you at first. The two of you had opposite schedules – he was often up until 3am, and you had to be to work by 7am every morning. Even on the weekends when you had the opportunity to sleep in, you would wake early to do yoga in the rising sun, something that had calmed you ever since your junior year of high school. Although your schedules made it difficult at first, you both seemed to have grown accustomed to them and figured out how to deal in your own ways.

The most terrifying experience you’d ever had didn’t actually happen to you. Once day, during a meeting for a non-profit organization to help people with special needs find employment, you felt the most intense burning feeling down your throat. You tried to ignore it at first, but eventually, you couldn’t avoid it any longer. You feared for your life, having never experienced anything like it before. The burning became so forceful, you began to sweat and tears pooled in your eyes. Coughing, you ran towards the water pitcher in the back of the board room, apologizing as you gulped down glass after glass of the liquid. You didn’t know how to explain what was going on to your colleagues, and more importantly, your boss. You looked around the room, panicked, unable to form any coherent thought. You, at the time, thought you were having a heart attack.

After calming down enough to explain your symptoms, one of the clients asked how old you were, and after explaining how you were twenty-five, he suggested that your PSM had just eaten something spicy. Everyone else in the room nodded in agreement, suggesting that you go find some milk in order to soothe your burning. Little did you know, your PSM had just eaten a spoonful of the hottest hot sauce he could find.

One afternoon, you felt so unbelievably frustrated that you had to excuse yourself from the office and take a walk around the building. You felt as though you had been working on something for such a long time, and it hadn’t turned out in your favor. Your hands felt tired, your forearms ached, and you wondered what your soulmate was doing to incite such a reaction from you. You felt such a strong urge to scream that you walked to your car and let it all out, the anger inside of you boiling out to the point that you had to bang your hands on the steering wheel.

And that’s what you wanted to stop. You wanted to stop experiencing these things secondhand. In the middle of the night, you would find yourself unable to sleep, a physical pain in your chest keeping you up. You wondered if your PSM was experiencing the same thing and figured that he must be – when the two of you were feeling the same emotions, your feelings often turned into physical pain. You would stretch out beneath your sheets and clutch at your duvet, wishing instead that your soulmate were with you, never wanting to feel this type of intense yearning again.

You feared, most of all, that your PSM wouldn’t love you. As much as you hated to admit it, you were bonded to him in a way that you could never let go of. If he didn’t feel the same way, you don’t know if you would ever recover. It was baffling to you, how you could love someone so much without having met them; without having ever _seen_ them. But you knew your soulmate – you knew his actual _soul_ – and you wanted to put your own heart at ease.

You knew the most inconsequential things about him. He absolutely abhorred pants, which you were quite okay with, as you hated them, too. When he laughed, you could feel it rumble in your chest, which caused you to chuckle along with him. Sometimes, when he forgot his glasses, you would receive an aching in your forehead, even though you had put your contacts in two hours previously. You willed him to not be so stubborn after the fifth time he caught his big toe on the corner of a coffee table.

It was, in all honestly, the most trivial things that made his existence etch into your soul. His favorite pizza toppings; how he never drank the last half-inch of liquid in a glass because he was convinced it was all saliva; how he twisted his hand awkwardly to sign his name. You loved how he positioned his body to drive; how he would search for something he was already holding; how he knew the origins of sayings like “Close, but no cigar” or “Winner, winner: chicken dinner!”

You were falling in love with the tiniest information you had about him, and you didn’t even know his name.


	2. The One With the Soulmate Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You woke up on the wrong side of the bed on your twenty-sixth birthday. You didn’t know why, and you hoped the feeling would soon pass, but after an hour-long yoga session in the sun and a soak in the bath afterwards, you still felt annoyed.

You woke up on the wrong side of the bed on your twenty-sixth birthday. You didn’t know why, and you hoped the feeling would soon pass, but after an hour-long yoga session in the sun and a soak in the bath afterwards, you still felt annoyed.

You’d take annoyance over the unethical amount of nervousness in your veins, though. You don’t recall any periods of sleep longer than twenty minutes the night before. You didn’t seem to be able to stay in once place – your legs thrashing outside of the blankets, your arms never fully resting at your sides, the cool side of the pillow not doing anything to calm your racing thoughts. You knew that going crazy the night before you met your soulmate wouldn’t do you (or him) any good, so you willed yourself to literally count sheep until you drifted off into a light sleep.

Nobody celebrated their twenty-sixth birthday, as far as you knew. Being matched with your Predetermined Soulmate was a big enough present. No, nobody bothered to make reservations at a restaurant or, really, even planned on getting you a gift. It was an unwritten rule that twenty-sixth birthdays aren’t shown any special attention, other than the assigning of the birthday person’s PSM. And you were fine with that – you really were – but the fact that no one had even _called_ to not only wish you a happy birthday, but wish you luck was only adding to your annoyance.

Last night, you received your one and only call from the Predetermined Soulmate Headquarters of America. A woman with a cold voice notified you that a car would arrive at your residence at approximately 12-noon to take you to the local Matching Station – a small building that housed the white room in which you would meet your PSM. You thanked her and promptly hung up, having no further questions.

The week before, you had all of your bloodwork done. Predetermined Soulmates were chosen at birth, but many things could go wrong from age zero to age twenty-six. All of your tests came back clear – no viruses, contagions, or harmful bacteria were found. And, yes, your blood was the deepest shade of purple it could be, signifying your purity. It would turn bright red once you and your PSM had consummated the relationship – _another_ thing that had you up all night.

Nobody under the age of twenty-six was allowed to have sex. The official reasoning was that there was no need for non-soulmates to fornicate with other non-soulmates, but you figured it was simply another regulation put in place in order for the Predetermined Soulmate Headquarters of America to keep their thumb on the growing population of the country. So, chemicals had been injected into pregnant mothers that ensured their babies’ blood would indicate whether or not they had remained chaste.

You didn’t know what happened to those under twenty-six who received bad results from the blood tests – especially the virginity test. You didn’t know of _anyone_ who actually knew. The prospect of not being matched with your PSM was terrifying – it was considered the worst thing that could ever happen to a person. And, if you were honest to yourself, you didn’t particularly care to have sex with anyone _but_ your PSM. It seemed, well, pointless.

You were pleased to know that your bloodwork was flawless, but the big huge green check next to the box marked “Purity” had put a lump in your stomach that hadn’t gone away since. You knew _how_ to have sex, as did everyone over the age of thirteen. There were online courses you were required to complete each year, going over exactly what would happen. Your knowledge of the act was there, but that didn’t mean you were ready for it.

Some PSMs, once they were matched, had sex right away. Your sister had slept with her PSM the night they matched. Which, it makes sense, doesn’t it? What is there to wait for? The universe does not have to align – it has already aligned for you – so banging was the only logical move after meeting for the first time.

You weren’t sure, though. You were still worried that your soulmate wouldn’t like you – would think you to be weird, or disgusting, or even worse… _you_ could find _him_ weird or disgusting. You knew there was no chance of that, however. You already felt so connected to him – so _in love_ (no matter how much it grossed you out to admit that about yourself) – that you figured your heart would physically break into two if he didn’t feel the same way.

Feelings. _That’s_ why you were so grumpy.

You knew to expect the lack of emotion-sharing on the day of your matching. It was to be understood that in order to prepare your brain for the first meeting, you quit feeling your soulmate twelve hours before you met them. And you hated it.

You wanted to know what he was feeling – if he was as nervous as you were. Your hands wouldn’t steady themselves during any task, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t regulate your breathing. You wondered if he was experiencing the same things, knowing that he probably was. Your soulmate didn’t deal with nerves well. He normally coped by stubbing his toe on a doorframe, dropping food on himself, or taking the wrong turn on a route he knew by heart.

All you wanted was for him to have the same feelings as you did, and to feel them at the same time he was feeling them. A satisfying sense of comfort blanketed over the two of you when you were feeling the same way – a calmness that added to the connection. Even if you were the most terrified you’d ever been, you still felt a peacefulness within you that someone – your _soulmate_ – was feeling the same way.

Your life would start today. You would be able to finally breathe for the first time knowing that you would be with your PSM for the rest of your life. It didn’t daunt you anymore – you didn’t need to talk yourself into it. You accepted it, and you were ready to be with him.

You would have so much to talk about – so much to learn about him. You already had lists upon lists of questions, which seemed silly to you, as you’d felt him with you for practically your entire life. You knew what foods upset his stomach, you knew his sleeping patterns, and you knew that he had a job that required long hours. But what you didn’t know was how he felt about ordering dessert before dinner, the places he wanted to travel to most, or what stupid knock-knock joke made him laugh the hardest.

That’s another thing. You longed to hear his voice. You wanted, more than anything, to revel in the tiny nuances of him that you’d never gotten to experience before. What did he sound like? Would his hands be much bigger than yours? Did he sigh when he turned over in the middle of the night? What color were his eyes when the sun flashed in them?

You hated to admit how much your heart swelled by just the thought of finding these things out. You hated to admit that it didn’t matter to you how awfully corny you sounded when you talked about how in love with him you were – _already_. Because when the chauffer arrives at your apartment at 12o'clock on the dot, a complete and total calm washes over you, just as if you and your soulmate were experiencing the same emotion at the same time.

—

Mark hated it when he was nervous.

He never really had much of a reason to be nervous – in the end, everything always worked out – but on the morning of his twenty-sixth birthday, he woke up with a pit in his stomach that was made of pure nerves. He hated the emptiness that came along with not knowing his soulmate’s emotions and tried his hardest to ignore the lack of warmth in his muscles during the time she’d usually be doing yoga.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. He woke up at 10 after what felt like twenty minutes of sleep. He looked in the mirror, not _feeling_ twenty-six years old. Unless, of course, feeling twenty-six years old meant that he was terrified and his heartrate was causing blurred vision and lightheadedness.

The thing about his twenty-sixth birthday was that he had waited his entire life for it. He’d been watching advertisements on television sponsored by the Predetermined Soulmate Headquarters of America, interviewing couples right after they had matched. Every single person was ecstatic with the pairing, and he couldn’t wait to have that for himself.

Once his bloodwork came back with all good results and he received the call from PSM Headquarters, the reality of the situation sunk in. Now that the car would arrive at his apartment within an hour, he was beside himself. He had changed his shirt ten times, not knowing what his soulmate would prefer. He ended on a red flannel – one that always seemed to bring him luck – and brushed his teeth three times to make sure they were clean.

He called Thomas last night, hoping that his older brother would share some wisdom with him, having already matched with his soulmate. Melissa was her name. Already together for two years, she was pregnant with their first baby – a girl – who was due in December. Mark was over the moon about becoming an uncle to the little one and could only hope that his PSM was as excited about starting a family of their own as he was.

Thomas told his younger brother not to worry – that everything would be fine. Of course, he’d be so nervous before he was matched that he might genuinely shit his pants, but the second he walks into the room and sees her standing there, all of his nerves will fall away. Mark told him that he wasn’t too sure about that, but as he slips his shoes on today, his brother’s words of encouragement comfort him.

After Thomas and Melissa matched, Mark could tell that his brother had changed. It wasn’t a bad change, either. At the celebration a week after they were deemed an official couple by the Headquarters, neither one of them could keep their eyes off of each other for more than two minutes. Mark was happy for Thomas, but seeing the two of them together only made him yearn for his PSM even more. _Two years_ , he told himself, _just two more years and I get to spend forever with her_.

He was most excited for the celebration, recalling how beautiful Thomas and Melissa’s party was. Society had done away with weddings – there was no use to recognize the relationship legally once it had been deemed official by Headquarters. The pomp and circumstance of it all was wiped away from what was expected of newly matched couples. No, a celebration was enough, and Mark was more than ready to celebrate his life’s companion.

While he waited for the car to arrive, he thought about his soulmate. He couldn’t wait to find out every small thing about her – which side of the bed she slept on, what her hair smelled like, whether or not if when she laughed, everyone laughed too. He could only imagine how gorgeous she would be - how she would take his breath away every time she looked him straight in the eyes, or the fact that she would look more beautiful just out of the shower than she would after spending an hour getting ready.

In just a short while, he wouldn’t have to think about _anything_ anymore. He would simply know.

—

After signing in to the “X” entrance of your local Matching Station via fingerprint, you sat down in the stark waiting room, smiling nervously at the ten other women who shared a birthday with you. It was a strange thing, how organized everything was. Every one of those women who were about to meet their PSMs for the first time was assigned a different entrance, a different driver – a different soulmate. You pondered how much of an effort the PSM program must’ve taken, how many resources it required to begin a program as big as this.

Your driver was assigned the location before he had picked you up, and you nervously chatted to him during the short drive. He told you that you were his 500th ride, something that _must’ve_ meant good luck. You asked him about his matching experience, and he told you about the second he laid eyes on his PSM thirty years ago. Their birthday was coming up – August 2nd – and they had three kids together with two grandchildren on the way. His youngest would meet her PSM this October, and she was just as eager as you were.

Trying not to think of the fact that you were in the same building as your PSM, you looked down at your fingernails and wished that you would’ve thought to paint them. Normally, you would’ve taken at least an hour to give yourself a nice manicure, but the thought had slipped your mind this morning as you were trying to calm yourself down.

A lady with a tight mouth entered the waiting room, and all eleven heads flicked her way with expectant eyes. She perused the sheet of paper on her clipboard while you noticed her hair was slicked back into a bun that looked as though it hurt. Dressed in all gray, she had a quality about her that made you nervous. You silently hoped that she wouldn’t call your name, wanting this experience to be positive – _everything_ about this experience to be positive.

“You,” she says, pointing directly at you. “Follow me,” the single pointed finger curled towards the doorway as you rose from your seat. The girls behind you wished you luck and you waved politely at them, reminding yourself to breathe.

The woman led you down a corridor with bare walls, her high heels clicking the entire way. You counted the clicks to distract yourself, unable to keep track of how many corners you had turned since you entered the hallway. Although the floor was a cold-looking concrete and the walls had no color, the temperature was quite warm – or, perhaps, that was just you.

“Happy birthday,” the woman says over her shoulder while you walk. She offers a smirk, the stone-like façade she pulled earlier melting away. “Don’t be nervous. This is all very overwhelming, but try to soak it all in. You’ll want to remember everything years from now,” she slows her footsteps and steadies in front of a door marked 263.

“Thank you,” you reply in a cracked whisper. “I just hope he likes me as much as I like him.”

“Oh, honey,” she smiles as she unlocks the door with her fingerprint, following up with a code that must be twelve numbers long. “Males usually have stronger emotions towards their PSMs before the match – it balances everything out in the end,” she ushers you into the room with a light hand on your elbow. “So, if you feel strongly about him, I can only imagine what he’s feeling about you.”

You nod and take a look at your surroundings. Save for the Predetermined Soulmate Headquarters of America logo painted on the south-facing wall, the room is completely bare. No chairs, no windows – just fluorescent lights and two doorways: one for you, and one for him.

“You’ll only be in here alone for about two minutes, and then your PSM will enter through that doorway over there,” the woman points, centering you on a tile in the middle of the room. “Then you’ll have about ten minutes to talk, get acclimated to one another, that sort of thing. Once those ten minutes pass, you’ll be driven to whichever location you prefer by one of our drivers. Do you have any questions for me, sweetheart?”

“No,” you shake your head, and you swear you’re about to pass out when she begins walking to the door you came through. “Thank you.”

“Absolutely,” she smiles as she walks through the door and back out into the hallway. “Congratulations!”

You stare directly at the door for the next two minutes, wanting it to open and willing it to stay shut in equal parts. You figured it was some sort of inhumane torture, leaving you in here alone for two minutes while your heart was beating out of your chest and you began to feel sweat against the back of your neck. You could’ve vomited – you could’ve puked all of your insides out onto that blank floor, had you not cared about embarrassing yourself.

Reminding your brain to take short, shaky breaths in, you told yourself to calm down. He loved you. He already loved you. Isn’t that what the woman said? His emotions were so much stronger than yours, so _he_ must be shitting bricks, if you’re about to black out in the middle of that room.

You’re going to cry. You know you are. The stress of the situation is too much, and while you’re normally not one to have anxiety about anything – the yoga really helped with all of that – you’ve never been so nervous about something in your entire life. You begin searching for a way out, but you know that all of the options you currently have (zero) are horrible (because there are none).

“Oh, fuck,” you moan, wringing your hands together. “I’m gonna puke, I’m gonna puke. I’m going to vomit and then I’m going to die. I’m going to die right here in this room and then I’m going to come back to life, puke again, and then die one more time.”

—

“What if I actually shit my pants?” Mark asks the man in an all-black suit who leads him down a white-washed hallway. “Because the chance of that happening is super high right now. Like, probably higher than you think. Much higher than you think,” he does a semi-dance as the man stops in front of a door marked 263.

“You’re not going to shit your pants,” the man chuckles, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to be okay. I promise. She’s just as nervous as you are right now – she’s probably even _more_ nervous, because she’s been in there by herself for the past two minutes,” he hitches a thumb behind him, pointing at the door.

“What?!” Mark whisper-shouts. “She’s in there? Right _now_?!”

“Yes,” the man laughs again, squeezing Mark’s shoulder. “Now, I’m going to open the door. You’re going to meet with her for about ten minutes or so. Talk about whatever you like – a lot of times, couples will just hug for the entire time. Once those ten minutes are up, one of our drivers will take you to whichever location you prefer,” the man squeezes Mark’s shoulder once more. “Do you have any questions for me before I unlock the door for you?”

“No,” Mark runs in place, blowing hot air through his lungs. “No, I don’t. Thank you, man. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, punching in an elaborate key code after his fingerprint is accepted. “Congratulations!”

Mark nods to him as the pressurized seal on the door breaks and slides open. The man begins walking the way he came in once Mark steps into the doorway, his hands shoved in his pockets. As he steps into the room, you look towards him, eyes wide and body shaking.

“Hi,” you say, stepping forward.


	3. The One With the Soulmate Pt. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second the door opens, you worry that you really will pass out. Laying eyes on your soulmate – with his dark hair, sturdy build, and kind eyes – your fingers and toes begin to tingle. An incredibly sharp pain shoots through your temples before a low buzzing noise begins in your ears. You wince, but continue to look towards your PSM, wondering if he’s feeling the same thing. It almost causes you to double over, but you try your best to ignore it.

The second the door opens, you worry that you really _will_ pass out. Laying eyes on your soulmate – with his dark hair, sturdy build, and kind eyes – your fingers and toes begin to tingle. An incredibly sharp pain shoots through your temples before a low buzzing noise begins in your ears. You wince, but continue to look towards your PSM, wondering if he’s feeling the same thing. It almost causes you to double over, but you try your best to ignore it.

When he steps fully into the room, the door vacuum-seals behind him. The second you make eye contact, the pain in your head stops, as does the buzzing. It’s almost as though the entirety of your body is vibrating – every molecule standing at attention, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to raise and goosebumps to appear on your arms and legs.

A light purple glow begins emanating from the floor and you can’t tell if you’re imagining it or not. You feel your pulse everywhere – in your shoes, in your knees, down the ends of your hair. Your heartbeat begins to syncopate with your soulmate’s, causing a wave of calm to crash down onto you. You imagine this is what being in love feels like; you know that every part of you was created to match every part of him.

“Hi,” you say, stepping forward.

“Hi,” his voice rings out, and a warming sensation rushes over your entire body as the sound of it pools at your feet.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, “you’re here.” You both inch carefully towards one another in small steps, worried that any sudden movement may send the other bolting to the exits, banging on the doors for someone to let them out.

“Yeah,” he smiles, “so are you.”

You’re eventually stood in front of each other, with him looking down at you, and you up at him. Although he can’t be more than three inches away from you, you feel too far away. Gingerly lifting your hand to his cheek, you drift your fingertips across the planes of his face, surprised sparks don’t start up beneath your skin. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, his dark eyelashes fluttering against the tops of his cheeks.

“I’ve missed you so much,” you say softly, your fingertips moving over his chin. “And now you’re here.”

He smiles underneath your fingers, opening his eyes in a series of flurries. “I’ve waited my entire life for this moment,” he blinks. “And it’s finally here.”

You step closer to him, your breath mingling with his while you take a breath in. He pulls you into his embrace, his grasp warm and comforting around you. Your heart jumps at the contact as you bury your face into his chest, breathing in his scent for the first time. Neither of you move from the position you’re in, wrapped in one another’s arms in silence while your heartrates steady.

“I should probably introduce myself,” your soulmate says, his voice vibrating through his chest and onto your cheek. “I’m Mark,” he chuckles. You smile and say your name into his chest, hugging him harder against you.

And then – you can’t help it – your eyes pool with tears and they begin to fall down your cheeks, silently at first, but then causing you to sniffle a bit into his soft red and black shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head and step back slightly so that you won’t continue to wet his shirt. “I don’t want to ruin your shirt and I don’t know why I’m crying but…” you wipe at your eyes, looking anywhere but Mark’s gaze.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his eyes catch yours briefly before he pulls you back into his chest, apparently not worried about his button-down. “You don’t have to cry,” he pets the back of your head, relaxing you enough to take a deep and steady breath. “I understand, though,” he mumbles, and you feel his chin rest on the crown of your head. “I’ve waited my entire life for this moment and now that it’s here…it couldn’t be any more perfect. _You_ couldn’t be any more perfect.”

“How can I be _this_ happy?” you wonder out loud, holding onto Mark so tight, you worry he’s going to say something about it. But he doesn’t. He mumbles in agreement and grasps you with his left arm while his right hand continues to make calming sweeps through your hair.

Everyone always told you that all you’d want to do in the first moments you met your soulmate was stand there together in silence, hugging each other or just simply looking at one another. You didn’t believe them – there was never a time that you’d be comfortable hugging _anyone_ for more than a few seconds, let alone look at them for more than a glance. You figured that there would be so much to talk about, so much to ask them, that there wouldn’t be any time for hugging in silence. You wanted to know why he got so frustrated sometimes, why he wasn’t more careful when he walked around in his bare feet. There would be plenty of time for hugging _after_ you found out everything about him.

But, standing here with Mark – your one and only soulmate – you believed everyone who warned you. You couldn’t imagine letting go of him, not feeling his arms around you; the warmth and safety his embrace provided; the softness of his flannel shirt. So when the vacuum-sealed door that he entered through opens, you hide your face in his chest, not wanting to let go.

“Sorry,” a man’s voice bellows from behind Mark. “But if you’re ready, the time has come for me to take you to wherever you’d like,” he says.

You squeeze Mark’s waist one last time and step away from him. When he grabs for your hand, your smile beams up at him. The two of you decide to go back to his apartment and take things from there. You were secretly happy that he suggested going to his place first; you wanted to see how he lived, what belongings he felt were important enough to display. You were bored with your apartment – you wanted to experience someplace new.

The 20-minute drive back to Mark’s apartment seemed to be the shortest car ride of your life. Time seemed to be moving quicker than ever now that you were finally matched with your soulmate. The driver chatted happily with the two of you while you looked into one another’s eyes and held each other’s hands. It was almost frightening how badly you wanted to look at Mark, just wanting to ensure you had a perfect picture of him into your mind in case he suddenly vanished, never to be seen again.

And shit, even though you had lived twenty-six years without him in your life, without him right next to you, gripping at your hand and looking into his eyes, you couldn’t imagine spending another second without him. You wondered how you had gone through life so easily without his presence. After knowing him for less than a half hour, you knew that something had gone so incredibly right twenty-six years ago when the database had paired the two of you up the day you were born.

Now if only you could somehow manage the flips and flops of your stomach whenever he looked at you…

Once the driver reached Mark’s building, you both thanked him and made your way up to his second-floor apartment. Your hand felt cold as he unhooked your fingers from his to unlock the door, and you knew that you would never want to be away from him for more than a second. It was an unnatural feeling for you that created butterflies in your stomach.

It was scary, this feeling. You had never depended on _anyone_ before, never had the intense itch in your palm whenever his hand wasn’t touching yours. But, things were different now. You were matched with your soulmate; matched with the one person who was created for you. You hoped that you would eventually get used to feeling this way – that it wouldn’t be strange for your scalp to tingle any time he smiled at you, that it wouldn’t feel foreign for your knees to twitch when he laughed.

“So, this is it,” he says as he opens the door and ushers you in.

You stand next to him as you survey the space, impressed with how well it was kept up. The kitchen, with its cherry-stained cupboards and granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The living room, peaking through the carved-out window in the kitchen, sported plush suede furniture with a toffee color that immediately comforted you. It smelled fresh, like he had lit candles this morning, and the thought of him wanting his apartment to smell good just in case you came over made you smirk slightly.

“What?” Mark asks, almost embarrassed.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, turning to him. “I love it, is all. It’s really nice.”

And for a second, your heart jumps at what you could say next. _I could see myself living here_. You’d lived alone since you were twenty – a requirement set in place by the government to ensure its young adults really got to “know themselves” before they were paired with their Predetermined Soulmates. You’d gotten used to it over time, coming home to an empty apartment. You missed your parents at first, sure, and did wish that you were allowed to live with roommates, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Mark gives you a short tour, guiding you around his apartment with his hand on the small of your back. You smile at the pictures of his family, enjoying that he kept childhood pictures of he and his brother – who was named Thomas, according to Mark, and found yourself smiling at the fact that he still kept figurines of famous comic book characters displayed on the shelves of his room.

He continued to comment on how he should’ve cleaned up more, but you didn’t see a mess – the place was immaculate, and when you told him so, you sensed a bit of a blush rise from the bottom of his cheeks. To hide his embarrassment, he grabbed your hand and began to lead you back to the living room where the two of you could sit on the couch.

“Can I say something that might make you think I’m legally insane?” Mark asks. You place your hand on his knee and nod, your brow furrowing at the look in his eyes. You can’t read how he’s feeling exactly, but you know he’s worried.

“Of course,” you whisper. “You can tell me anything.”

“I…” he begins, looking up at the ceiling. He glances back down at your hand on his knee, placing both of his on top of it. You squeeze your palm on his skin with reassurance, urging him to spit it out. You don’t think he could say _anything_ at this point that would change how you felt about him. He murdered someone? That’s okay, you’d get through it together. That’s what soulmates did…right?

“I love you,” he blurts out, and he says it so fast, you almost miss it. He winces at his own voice, so obviously worried about your reaction.

Your heart skips a beat when he says it, you’re sure of it. You’ve never had anyone outside of family tell you that they loved you. Your eyes tear up at the thought and you wish the tears away before they get the chance to fall.

“And like, I know it’s probably too soon to say that, but goddamnit I just – you – I don’t – I don’t know how to explain it, but I love you. I love you so much already. I, well, really, I loved you before I even met you, which I _know_ is crazy. How do you explain something like that? It’s completely insane to be in love with someone when you don’t even know what they look like,” he rushes his speech, moving to talk with his hands as he stares at the TV across the room that’s currently turned off.

“Mark,” you say as he continues to ramble. “Mark!”

He abruptly stops in the middle of a word, his hair flopping violently on his head as he whips his attention to you. You grin at the sight, squeezing your hand on his kneecap again.

“I love you too,” you laugh. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I get it. I love you so much.”

The two of you look at each other, your thighs touching where you sit on the couch. Wide grins spread across your faces, eventually matching one another until you’re giggling so much you hiccup.

“I want to kiss you now,” he says, suddenly becoming serious. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

You stop laughing and nod slightly, almost shocked at his abruptness. When he shifts his body so that his torso is fully facing you, you move to lace your fingers in with his. The air removes itself from the room, the traffic outside comes to a screeching halt, every sunflower within a hundred-mile radius turn their faces towards the two of you. Breathing in gently while he caresses your jaw with his free hand, you blink your eyes shut as his lips touch yours for the first time.

And gosh, _this_ is what they were writing about in all of those old poetry books you’d found from the 1800s, a time so long ago you couldn’t comprehend anything within their covers holding much truth. _This_ is why wars started, why someone could feel so strongly about another person that they fought to the death for their love. _This_ is what all of the pamphlets were about, _this_ is what the instructional videos you’d been forced to watch since you were in the eighth grade were about. You finally understood it all. You understood every bit of it the second Mark’s lips touched yours.

You were terrified of it all – the possibility that kiss held beneath it. The truth that you were literally made for Mark, and he was made for you. When he tilts his jaw to the right so that he can deepen the kiss, your heart lurches in your chest. You flick your tongue out to slip across his lower lip, and when he tightens his grip around your fingers, you dip back in his mouth for more.

And yeah, you had kissed guys before. Plenty of them. It was expected of you. But the second you connected your mouth to Mark’s, you questioned why you even wasted your time with those others. How soft his lips were on top of yours, how the cool tip of his tongue slid past your own, how he nipped gently at your full bottom lip, how he would whine deep in his throat when you pulled away to catch your breath – nothing could compare. Not a single thing. It was a lifetime full of practicing put to good use, just so you could relish in the beauty of kissing a soul that was designed to match your own.

You had grown up questioning the system. As an angst-ridden teen, it was your duty to fully believe you were in love with your high school boyfriend and that there wasn’t possibly anyone else in the world who could be better for you. You had written _Fuck the Headquarters_ in black magic marker on the stall of every bathroom of your high school, determined to let the world know how much you hated their stupid Predetermined Soulmate matching system. You’d gotten sent home multiple times for vehemently protesting the viewing of PSM infomercials every Wednesday morning during homeroom. You remember writing journal entries about how you’d rather die than be matched with your supposed soulmate.

Truthfully, you were bitter. You were bitter about love for no reason other than the fact that you wanted it on your own terms. You spat at the idea of being matched up with someone by the government; you rolled your eyes at every post-match celebration you attended; you held back the urge to vomit whenever someone close to you got matched.

But, the older you got, the less bitter you became. The more you saw the matches work, the more you believed in the process. The system, you figured out, wasn’t so bad. Sure, you still hated romance and couldn’t stand the thought of pink and red hearts exploding everywhere on the fourteenth of every February, but as your twenty-sixth birthday neared, your exterior softened at the idea of love.

And now? Now that you were with Mark? You wanted to punch your teenage-self in the face for ever hating the idea. You knew, somehow, that he was the best thing to ever happen to you. Although it scared the shit out of you to think that this was _it_ , that this was the love of your life and you’d just have to get over it, you were comforted by the fact that you didn’t have to worry anymore. There was no more guessing, no more longing, no more waiting.

He was here, and you were with him.

—

The two of you spent the rest of the day stealing kisses from one another, bantering back and forth, and laughing at the idiosyncrasies of one another’s behavior that were showing themselves. It was enough for him to just _be_ there. You didn’t have to do anything special – you didn’t _want_ to do anything special. All you needed was to hear his voice talk about things that he loved, or question you about your stance on certain topics. All you needed was to just… _be_.

You stood side-by-side in the kitchen as you prepared dinner, a simple dish of pan-seared chicken and stir-fry vegetables. The two of you sipped on white wine as you gathered ingredients, and although you didn’t know it at the time, this was the moment you would look back on years from now – the moment your heart was finally still, finally at peace. While Mark prepared the meat, you chopped broccoli, peppers, onions, and carrots. You bumped his side into yours each time he nicked a pepper slice, to which he responded with a kiss to your lips.

“I didn’t buy mushrooms,” he comments. “Because I know how much you hate them.”

You grin, thankful that you’re chopping up the onion so that you have an excuse for your tears. And _damnit,_ when were you going to stop crying? If the simple fact that he didn’t buy mushrooms because he knows you don’t like them put you over the edge, what would you do if he went out and bought you something because you _did_ like it? If your teenage-self saw you now, she would laugh in your face and call you a chump.

Oh, well. If you were a chump for anyone, Mark’s a pretty good choice.

“Oh, hey, I meant to ask you,” he turns towards you. “Did you break your arm when we were seven?”

“Yeah,” you nod as you chop, smiling at the memory. “Did you feel it?”

“The entire fucking time!” he grumbles, placing a pan on the stovetop. “What happened? The pain was the worst thing ever. I cried to my mom for a good hour.”

“It did take a long time for them to see me so they could set it,” you remember. “I jumped off of the swing set in my backyard. My best friend and I were seeing how far we could get – I won, but I broke my arm for being so cocky,” you smirk, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t stop screaming for the entire ride to the hospital.”

“What color cast did you get?” he asks, and you smile at his question. Smiling and crying – your face couldn’t decide between the two, and you were running out of onion to slice, so you’d prefer smiling.

“Blue,” you answer. “The doctor kept asking if I was sure I wanted blue, too. He talked about how he had pretty bright pink and a really nice purple, but I wanted blue. It’s always been my favorite color,” you shrug, still annoyed that the doctor was so adamant about you _not_ having a blue cast.

“I love that,” Mark comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder. You lean into him as you pile the onions into the bowl of chopped veggies. “I love _you_ ,” he mumbles, kissing your shoulder where it meets your neck.

“I love you too,” you turn so that you can kiss his lips, and while the lip-lock is much longer than you intended, neither of you seem to mind. “Okay,” you pull away from his lips, and he groans again, causing your heart to flutter. “What in the _hell_ did you eat that day earlier this year?! I thought I was literally dying. _Literally dying!_ ”

“Oh,” he chuckles, coming around to your side again, his left arm still around your torso. “That,” he shakes his head, scoffing at his own stupidity. “I was dared to eat the hottest hot sauce I could find, so I ate a spoonful of it.”

“Why?” you ask, dumbfounded. “Why would you do that to us?”

He laughs and squeezes your hip. When you continue to stare at him with your _look_ , he laughs harder, unable to get out an explanation.

“Seriously!” you wave an unsliced carrot in his face. “I was in the middle of a meeting with some very important clients! I had to pretend like nothing was wrong, but when I bolted to the back of the room to drown myself in the pitcher of water, they all looked at me like I was crazy. I couldn’t even _speak_ ,” you grumble, slamming the carrot down on the cutting board.

Mark lets out a full-on belly laugh, one that causes him to tilt his head back and hold his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he manages to say between his chortles. When you kick him in the ass playfully, all he does is laugh harder, imagining you trying to hold it together during a meeting.

“It’s not funny!” you pout, recalling how you were almost in tears at the pain. You were _still_ embarrassed about the whole ordeal, even though the clients and your boss completely understood. You broke out in a cold sweat every time their nonprofit organization’s name popped up on a document. It wasn’t diagnosed, but you’re pretty sure you had PTSD over the matter.

“It’s kind of funny,” Mark laughs again, and when you frown at him, he squeezes you tightly in a backwards hug, kissing loudly into your neck. “Admit it,” he says into your skin.

“No!” you go to move away from him, but you can’t fool yourself. Your body automatically leans into his whenever he’s touching you, or near you or…well, within a ten-mile radius of you, you’re sure. “It was the most terrifying experience I’ve ever gone through, and now that I know the stupid reason behind it, I’m super angry,” and you know you sound like a two-year-old, but seriously? He did it on a _dare_?

“Oh, c'mon,” he mocks, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, _especially_ if I knew that you were in an important meeting,” he explains. When he kisses your neck again, you shiver, unable to stop your body’s involuntary response to him. “I’d take it all back if I could.”

You turn around in his arms so that you’re pinned up against the counter when he places both of his hands to rest against it. He looks at you with raised eyebrows and his almond-shaped eyes so big they’re nearly a caricature of themselves.

Okay, you’re over it. You’ve moved on. And the only reason is because he’s looking at you with his puppy dog eyes and… _fuck_ , you’ve lost the battle. You lose your ability to hold a grudge against him, and you know you’re never going to be able to be angry at him for as long as you live.

You can’t help it when you crash your lips onto his – it’s out of your control, at this point. When he moves so that his torso is up against yours, no space left between, you can’t help the small moan that slips out of your mouth and into his. And when he grips onto your hips, the whimper you provide in response is on your lips before you even have the chance to squelch it.

The hunger you feel for him radiates off of your skin, and you wonder if your need isn’t seeping into his skin, causing him to feel the same thing. He takes his hand off of your hip and grabs the back of your head, his thumb resting near the shell of your ear. Your appetite grows, becoming its own entity as it forces you to hook your finger into one of his belt loops, pulling your lower halves together.

“Ungh,” Mark grunts as he pulls away. “No,” he mumbles, placing his forehead onto yours. “We shouldn’t. I mean we could – we probably _will_ – but we shouldn’t.”

“I know,” you sigh, closing your eyes while you rub your hands up the sides of his torso. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Let’s not rush it.”

While you focused on cooking the vegetables, Mark focused on searing the chicken. It was harder to look him in the eyes after your fit of famine for his touch, but you eventually warmed up to him again. There was no need to be shy or embarrassed – you knew that he would never judge you, especially when you considered he was feeling the same way.

The two of you ate in a comfortable silence, making comments about how nice it was to not eat alone, how it never felt like you would actually get to this point. You, once again, stood side-by-side as you tended to the dirty dishes, with you placing them in the dishwasher once Mark had rinsed them off. You fell into the pattern of kissing him each time he handed a dish to you, smiling whenever your lips touched, even if for only a moment.

As the sun moved lower in the sky, the two of you were perfectly content with sitting back on the couch, watching game shows, but not really paying any sort of attention to what was going on. Instead, you spoke about what you wanted to do with one another, what you had both planned out over the course of the last twenty-six years.

It was the simple things that made your heart the happiest – Mark’s mentioning of searching for houses together, going to house and home stores so you could pick out furniture, contemplating what drinks you should serve at your celebration – all of it made you smile so hard, you wondered when your cheeks would finally have enough of it and decide not to raise into a upwards curve again.

—

Although it was only nine o'clock, you and Mark were completely exhausted. On the way to his apartment, your driver warned you about how tired the two of you would be once the sun began to set. It was to be expected, what with all of the intense emotions running through you all day. You heeded his warning, but you couldn’t imagine ever wanting to sleep again. You were on such a high – the feeling of being in Mark’s general presence caused a sense of general euphoria – you didn’t want the feeling to ever end.

But, as the sun set in the sky, neither of you could keep from yawning. Both of you tried to keep the conversation going through your yawns and watery eyes, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep your head from nodding off. Mark suggested that he give you a pair of sweatpants and one of his t-shirts to change into so you’d be able to climb into bed and rest with him. You readily agreed – getting to feel his soft clothes on you as you slipped into bed next to him was exactly what you needed.

When you came back into the bedroom in his clothes – a purpley-blue v-neck with black stripes and a pair of gray joggers – he stops in his track to stare at you. You self-consciously pull at the sweatpants that are much too big for you. To keep them from falling off your waist, you rolled the band at your hips three times, yet they still hung on your legs like a billowing flag in the summer heat.

“What?” you ask nervously, placing your clothes on top of his dresser. “Mark!” you laugh when he doesn’t say anything. “What?!”

“You just…” he starts. “I love you in my clothes.”

You chuckle and thank him, making your way to the bed. You’d always slept on the right side, so the fact that Mark preferred the left allowed you to snuggle in beneath the sheets. Not far behind, he lifts the covers to join you, turning the television onto the same channel you had been absently paying attention to in the living room.

You shift in bed next to Mark, sighing into his chest as you lay in the crook of his arm. He rubs the back of your head, weaving his fingers into the strands of your hair. You absentmindedly draw circles on his chest with your index finger, closing your eyes at the feeling of his warmth surrounding you.

Opening your eyes and staring at his right hand, you go to grab at his fingers. You were already in love with his hands, noticing how strong they were as he held you at the matching station, their warmth spreading on your scalp as he soothed your tears. You touch every finger with your own, weaving the pads in and out of his own, and although you can’t see him, he focuses on your movements instead of the television.

It’s amazing to you how he’d had these hands for twenty-six years. You imagined what they’d gone through, what they’d touched. And now there they were, right in front of you to gaze at, to play with, to lace into your own. They told the story of Mark that you didn’t know – he had a small scar at the bottom of his palm, what looked like a burn. There were calluses beneath each finger at the base – from what, you weren’t sure, and as you ran your fingertips across each one, he sighs gently.

“Hey,” he says, and you feel his voice against your cheek.

“Hey,” you smile, lifting your head. His eyes are hooded with sleep, his voice gruff with how tired he is.

“I love you,” he whispers, smiling at how your hair stuck up in the front. With a gentle hand, he smooths the flyaway strands.

“I love you more,” you kiss his chest through his t-shirt, smiling into his sternum.

He lifts your chin up with the top of his index finger, willing you towards his mouth. You oblige, moving your body so that it was aligned to kiss him better. When your lips touch, you raise up on your right elbow, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

You weren’t able to keep track of how many times you had kissed that day – it was impossible to keep up after the initial meeting of your lips against his – but you already knew that you would never get enough. Mark took his time with each kiss, not rushing anything, always paying attention to the details that made your stomach do somersaults beneath your skin.

When he tilts his chin into you and slides his tongue over your lower lip, you know that you’re done for. Whatever he has to say could never deter you from wanting him as badly as you do, could stop you from pleading him to give in to his want – to allow you to give in to _your_ want. You increase the pressure of your chest against his, of your lips on top of his, of your palm against his.

You lean back to tease him as he attempts to nip at your lips, but they’re too far down his jaw for him to reach you. You smile into his neck, kissing up and down the width of it while the muscles in his stomach flutter. You choose not to comment on the movement – instead, you try to make him do it again, and when you bite gently at the hinge of his jaw, his abs quake once more.

“Baby,” you whimper against him, moving so that you could look him in the eyes. You already know your secret weapon – the combination of your soft moans and your lips against his neck would get you what you wanted.

Mark sighs, the noise hitching in his throat as he shifts his body so that you’re underneath him. With your hair splayed out against the pillows beneath you, you reach for him, resting your palm against his jaw.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, the deepness of his voice vibrating against you. “How did I get so lucky?”

You pull him to you, opening your legs so he can lay comfortably on top of you. You feel him through his sweatpants – the pair he sports, along with the pair you’re donning – and for a second, you forget to breathe. It was all you ever wanted, this moment. To be here with your soulmate – _with Mark_ – and know that absolutely nothing could go wrong.

When he takes your mouth onto his again, he kisses you with a pace that is different from before. This time, he’s more eager, more alert. His tongue flits out onto yours in quick strokes, and before you can react, he’s onto a different spot. He finally nips your lips between his teeth, satisfied with himself when you let out a small noise that can only signify good things.

You drown in his clothes – the t-shirt he gave you pools around your waist and hangs low on your neck, but you love it. You love how soft it is, how it smells just like him. He doesn’t have to pull the fabric down and away from you when he goes to kiss your clavicle, nor does he have to do much fumbling to reach his hands beneath the hem to grasp at your sides.

Admittedly, the second he begins to kiss your neck, you’re sure he’s figured out that he’s now got the same secret weapon that you have. You moan beneath him when he kisses you behind your ear, gasp when he juts his the tip of his tongue against your earlobe. Grabbing at his bicep, you move beneath him, never one to sit still when your neck is involved.

You’d never really been _wet_ before, or at least you didn’t think you had been. When you’d kissed the others – the “practice rounds” – you enjoyed the feeling it gave you. You liked how your lips began to tingle and you were fond of how your heartrate became erratic with each passing second. But when Mark begins to palm your breasts beneath his shirt, when his mouth reattaches to yours and stifles your moans, when he gives in to the instinct to push his hips into yours – you feel a warmth begin in your core that you knew would only happen with him.

“Take it off,” you gasp as you pull away from his mouth. “Take it away, I don’t want it,” you grip at the shirt you’re wearing, nearly frantic with the feeling of his palms against your hot skin. “I know we said we shouldn’t, and you’re right, we probably shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I mean, it’s gonna happen sometime, right? Regardless, I don’t want this shirt on anymore,” you whine.

He chuckles and begins to raise the hem of the shirt upwards towards your neck, moving so that he can leave a trail of kisses up your torso. He stops and takes his time when he reaches your breasts, and when he flicks his tongue against the rosy mound in the center, you can’t help but wonder where he learned it. You lift up and away from him, not knowing if you can take it anymore. You swipe the shirt off of your body and onto the floor, happy to finally be rid of the barrier between the two of you.

“Shit,” he groans under his breath as he sits back on your shins. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. How can you be _so fucking gorgeous_?”

You take a moment to feel self-conscious under his gaze until you realize it’s unnecessary. You feel how beautiful you are to him – you don’t question how gorgeous you look. How he perceives you is how you are, and you’d never felt more validated than you did under his stare.

“I can’t,” you shake your head while you reach for the hem of his shirt. “I don’t want this either,” you shake your head, lifting up the shirt so he would get the hint to remove it. He chuckles again, once and for all removing the clothing from his body.

You try not to stare at the v-lines against his waist; you try not to gawk at how perfect his skin looks in the blue light of the television screen; you try not to reach out and outline the shadow of his abs, but your attempts at not being completely enamored with his shirtless form are pointless.

“I get to have sex with this for the rest of my life,” you whisper, your fingertips resting gently on his pectoral muscles. His boisterous laugh startles you out of your daze, and when you look up to meet his eyes, you begin to giggle as well.

“Yeah, imagine how _I_ feel,” he says, motioning towards you with his palms facing the ceiling. “Look at _you_!”

You giggle once more, pulling him down on top of you again. The two of you smile into the kiss, but the smiles quickly fade into quiet moans and hurried fingers. You press your hands into his shoulders, noticing how the bulge in his sweatpants seems to grow each time you let out a small noise or two. You lift your torso so that you are closer to him, able to feel the heat of his core grind onto yours while you both moan in desperation.

“My love,” you whisper against his lips. “I need you. I need you right now.”

He pulls away from you, aiding in the removal of his too-big sweatpants on you. You raise your hips so that he can pull both the pants and your underwear down the curve of your butt, and when he tosses the clothes behind him in a quick motion, you smile.

“So perfect,” he mumbles, raking his hands down your body. “You’re so goddamn perfect.” He slides his middle finger in between your folds, causing you to snap your fingers together in a mixture of pleasure and confusion. Gently, he pries apart your legs and slides his finger down once more, but slower this time. You shudder at the feeling and grasp his wrist, your eyes widening at the jolt of electricity running through your body. “You’re so ready for me. So wet. So, so perfect.”

You claw at the waist of his sweatpants and boxer briefs, _needing_ them off of his body. He covers your hands with his much larger fingers, helping you slip them off of his slightly tanned skin. You push them to the floor with your feet, trying not to wonder how _that_ was going to fit into _you_.

It’s not like you’d never seen one of _those_ before. There were books. There were movies. But having to see one in person was no joke – you suddenly became terrified at the thought of having sex with Mark, rather than excited. Because, well, _shit_. It was happening. It was all happening!

“Are you…” you start and then stop your words, unsure of what to say. “Are you – sc – are you scared at all?” you trip over your question, your voice meek and feather-light.

“Of course I am,” he nods, moving to lie above you once more. “Don’t worry,” he mumbles as he places chaste kisses all over your cheeks and the tip of your nose. “I’ll be slow. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, okay? I promise.”

“Okay,” you nod, and you can feel the tip of him at your center. He moves to adjust himself slightly, but doesn’t go any further before asking if you’re ready. And then he asks again. And then again, just to make sure that you’re positively, absolutely ready.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, centering himself in front of you. He kisses your lips one last time, and you take a deep breath and nod, reassuring him that you were indeed ready.

When the tip of him enters you, you wonder why - after all of these amazing technological advances, after all of the incredible database systems put into place, after years and years of scientific research done on everything under the sun – _why_ did it still have to hurt? You take a sharp breath in at the pain, wincing as you snap your eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” Mark immediately asks, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You imagine that it must feel fine – probably _great_ – for him, and for a second, you kind of hate him.

“Yeah,” you nod in a short motion, blowing a stream of air out through your lips. “Yeah, it just really stings is all.”

‘Try to relax,“ he coaches, his voice automatically soothing you enough to adjust your hips underneath him. It takes a few more seconds to acclimate yourself to the feeling, but once you’re ready for him to move again, he slowly pushes into you.

"Agh, _fuck_!” you spit out, grasping at his biceps so hard you’re sure there will be half-moon imprints of your fingernails in his skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, kissing your lips briefly. “I’m so, so sorry, baby.” And you can tell he means it, just based on the tone of his voice alone. “Do you want to stop? I love you so much. We can stop. We can totally stop – I don’t want to hurt you. I love you. I hate that I’m hurting you.”

“No, no, no,” you shake your head and open your eyes, resting your palm against his cheek. His brow furrows at the pain on your face. “You’re not hurting me, I promise. It’s just a bit weird to get used to,” you kiss him, hoping to convince him that the pain wasn’t completely unbearable.

“Are you sure?” he asks when you pull away from his lips, and the worry beneath his eyes is enough for you to fall in love with him all over again.

“I’m sure,” you nod, kissing him once more. “Just do the whole thing at once, yeah? Like ripping a bandaid off or something. I think prolonging it will just make it worse.”

It takes a bit of convincing, but when he’s finally resting on top of you, completely inside, you take a moment to get used to the feeling once more. You urge him to move, to act like the two of you had done this a million times, because you knew that eventually, you’d be okay with the movement. Maybe – and this was a _big_ maybe – you’d begin to like it.

Once you’ve – or, well, _Mark_ – established a rhythm, you don’t find it all that uncomfortable. You still grasp at his biceps, but you’re soothed by how reassuring your soulmate is through the whole ordeal. It was lovely, almost, to see how your body caused him so much pleasure. That, in turn, gave you pleasure, allowing you to let out soft mews beneath him.

It’s almost comical how bad he feels about it, and you remind yourself to tell him you didn’t think a man was ever so apologetic for experiencing pleasure. It was just another thing to add to the list of reasons why you were already so deeply in love with him – when he whispered that he loved you in your ear, when he continued to check up on your tolerance, when he called you beautiful and thanked you over and over for being so amazing – you would experience the first time over and over, just for those things.

“I think I’m ready,” he says into your hair, his movements becoming more erratic and arrhythmic.

“Yes, baby,” you encourage him, rubbing your hands up and down his arms. “I love you,” you whisper into his ear while his breathing picks up and his muscles seize under your touch. He’s quiet when he finishes – something you were warned about, or, rather, were told about. You’re glad he doesn’t burst out in a series of expletives or caveman-like grunts. You may have never let him enter you again if it had been the opposite of what he exhibited.

“You’re the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to me,” Mark whispers a few minutes later, once the two of you had gotten cleaned up and were back in bed.

“I never thought I could love someone this much,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears for what seemed to be the thousandth time that day. “I’m so happy it’s you.”

—

When you wake up the next morning, you forget where you are for a moment. Mark’s arms encase your own, and you smile, remembering that yesterday was your twenty-sixth birthday.

After years of waiting, it was almost unimaginable that the day had finally come and gone. You were matched with your Predetermined Soulmate, and you had so much to show for it. For one, you couldn’t stop smiling, and you didn’t know if you would ever be able to.

Mark shifts beside you, pulling you closer into him before kissing your hair. He sighs into your neck, not once opening his eyes.

“I love you,” you whisper, your hands resting over his.

“I love you more.”


End file.
